Taken Care Of
by Val-Creative
Summary: The final cards have been dealt to Bobby and he needs to decide if what is being offered is really worth it. /Set after 7x18, Party On Garth. Standalone. Bits and pieces of BobbyxCrowley.


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Dean shakes his head, perhaps he's disappointed in himself, and closes the motel door behind him.

Bobby swears aloud when Dean's car starts to run its engine, as it pulls out of its parking space through the window's view, and he begins to feel his existence fizzle like television static on this plane of reality. At the same moment, a presence like _shadows —_ a pulsing flood of _authority_ enters the room.

"Hello, Robert," drawls from the softly upturned lips of the dark creature. Crowley continues using that oily, that slick and charismatic, tone as Bobby stops fizzling and turns his head towards him. "My sympathies to your untimely demise."

"I doubt there's such a thing like _sympathy _in the likes of you," the ghost mutters through his beard.

Crowley's smirk deepens.

"Darling, you've got me pegged all wrong." The well-coiffed demon shoves his hands into his coat pockets. "By the way… how are your boys doing without you?" he inquires.

"… …Hopeless idjits," Bobby admits, giving the motel window one last lingering, _helpless_ stare before turning fully to his companion. "What else is new?"

Crowley tuts with feigned sadness, slowly examining him. "Can't just let go, can you? Well, it appears to be your lucky day. I'm feeling a generous bargain coming on." Within seconds, the demon appears in his personal space and rests the tip of his index finger against Bobby's chest. "Help me… help your boys get that little prick Dick Roman's severed head on a platter… and I'll make sure you're taken care of."

"Taken care of?"

Crowley purrs, circling that finger against the flannel shirt, "In whatever manner you see fit."

"Oh, _right_." Bobby says, sarcastically, "And how would _that_ benefit you, your Highness?"

"It takes care of the Leviathan problem. Everyone benefits," the demon reminds him. "_Oh_… a few minor clauses should be discussed before we go on. While tricks can be provided, I can't bring you back to life. Not for any of this or after we strike a bargain."

An irritated growl. "Can't or won't?"

The word rounds out Crowley's thin lips, "_Won't_."

"Tricks?"

"Facts are facts. You're useless as a spirit, Robert. It's not enough to make a few objects move into reach. You need to be _stronger_. And you'll start going mad in due time." Bobby straightens his shoulders upward — if he had a human body, he might have shuddered. "That's why you must… go darkside, as Dean would put it so profoundly."

Bobby's eyes slit at Crowley's _alley-cat-who-ate-the-ripe-old-canary_ expression. "You mean like, becoming a demon?"

"It's a small price to pay. The process itself is excruciating, even for a spirit… but in the long run? Very beneficial to the cause." Crowley informs him, face pulling into a considerate frown, "I did like you as a man, you know — despite your visage of the overweight and cranky drunkard." Bobby rolls his eyes at this. "But your intelligence is sharp. Your will is strong and you've got a decent-sized…" Crowley's harvest gold eyes flick down under Bobby's belt as he trails off and Bobby's jaw clenches.

"…mean streak," he finishes in a murmur, gaze directing up once more.

"Why should I trust you to uphold the end of any bargain?" Bobby points out, stony-faced, "You've tricked me before."

"I was hoping we could let that nastiness flow right under the bridge." The ghost keeps the stern blankness and Crowley sighs, rolling his black-fiber jacket sleeve towards his bicep. "Very well, Robert. Be grateful for the moment that I'm desperate." Bobby takes a cautionary step back as the demon tugs out a long, jagged knife from a pocket and then a small vial of liquid casting a murky orange glow.

"What in the blazes is that?" comes out of Bobby's mouth as Crowley unscrews the cap to the vial, downing the glowing liquid with one swig.

A grimace, "_Bugger_," and he snorts loudly and inelegantly through his nose.

"My last resort," Crowley narrates, gesturing for Bobby to come closer. As to be expected, Bobby does not. "We end up binding ourselves as demons. Somewhat like a creator would to his vampire. _U__nfortunately_, there is equal footing in the matter. I cannot alter the terms we agree upon… and I cannot inflict harm on you without it affecting me."

"For better or for worse?" The ghost of the cranky drunkard recites with some numbness in enthusiasm for the concept.

Something akin to a genuine smile flashes over Crowley. It's perhaps more frightening with the knowledge that this is _Crowley_.

"In sickness and in health, love." Bobby doesn't catch when the knife slashes Crowley's wrist until there's spots of the dripping blood on the motel rug. "The liquid I drank contains very dark and very mystical properties through it, and it helps that this vessel bleeds so nicely." Crowley raises his eyebrows. "…Your terms?"

Bobby scowls. The red droplets slide down pale, thick skin. He ignores them. "My terms are: There's no going after Sam or Dean, or any of the hunters that associate with them."

Crowley makes a disapproving face. "How predictable," he complains.

"_And_ I don't get thrown away after this. If being a demon is permanent—"

"—which it is, inescapably," Crowley interrupts, smugly.

Bobby glares. "—then I don't want anyone coming after me."

A mild and dreamy-eyed _ahhh_. "Are we eloping, darling?"

"Just give me the damn blood, Crowley."

"Already so greedy, I'm starting to get all tingly," the demon assess, holding out his bleeding wrist for Bobby's scrambling grasp.

Bobby chances a glance to see Crowley blink, those light gold eyes switching out and gleaming an identical blood red to his wound.

"…Open wide for Daddy."

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_An entertaining request from Tumblr to see what would happen if ghost!Bobby met with Crowley immediately after 7x18. If you yourself were entertained, lemme know~. Reviews are always appreciated._


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